


Accord

by kettish



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, But the smut here is consensual, Cultural Differences, Just that Hobbits cant consent during their heats or ruts, Knotting, M/M, No worries guys I got this, Past Rape/Non-con, So its non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettish/pseuds/kettish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commissioned fic by StrivingArtist on tumblr! Accord: A scent is more than the sum total of its parts. So is Bilbo more than just an Alpha and a Hobbit--he is the one Thorin wants to take him through his heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a commision from striving-artist on tumblr! I enjoyed it SO MUCH! Thanks to irrealia (adreamandawreck) for the excellent beta job and moral support, to ihatethisfreakingcat for the amazing beta for nitpicky grammar bits, and to deviousdragon42 for the bagginshield battery recharge! Thanks and apologies also to anyone who listened to me whine about writing.

Thorin hadn’t honestly expected the halfling to tag along. He was gorgeous, but in that ‘useless Alpha of another race’ sort of manner that had never impressed Thorin much.

 

With an annoyed huff, he dismissed the obnoxious little Alpha as soon as he was seated on his pony and called for the Company to move on. 

 

“Good thing Dis kept on your case when you were packing,” Dwalin said with a smirk from the pony beside Thorin’s. Thorin sneered and turned his eyes back to the front to sulk--he hated taking the herbal heat-suppressant tea his sister had insisted he bring with him.

 

Dwarven Omegas couldn’t afford to be caught out on their own in the towns of Men, where a lone omega could be easy prey for a group of Alphas many times their size. Even one Man, if they knotted the unfortunate Dwarf, could kill them. And so when they were among outsiders, all Dwarven omegas drank the herbal tea that kept them from going into heat.

 

Thorin hated it. Hated that it was messing with his insides, hated that he was overly emotional while he went through the adjustment period, hated that he was scentless and bland on top of having mediocre looks. 

 

Grumbling, he dug through his pouch and slipped the herbs into one of his canteens, where the tea would cold-brew all day and be ready to drink at night.

 

Behind him, the dull little thing rode his pony like he was a set of clothes full of potatoes and towels, and Thorin swore to Mahal that if he didn’t prove his worth on this journey, Thorin would personally carve Gandalf’s staff into a phallus, complete with knot at one end.

 

Three days later, Thorin had spoken a bare handful of words to the halfling--Baggins, what kind of name was  _ Baggins-- _ and watched him fluster around the campsite once again. The chubby little hobbit was beyond rude, and somehow managed to leave his Alpha stink all over everything he touched. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so impetuous, and if it hadn’t made Thorin’s cock swell a bit in his trousers; the hobbit smelled delicious, like brown sugar and tobacco and whiskey and berries, like his scent had been tailored to appeal to Thorin. Thorin glowered at him from across the campfire as he wandered back to slump against his pack.

 

“What’s got him all tired?” Dwalin grumbled, heaving his bulk down next to Thorin. “Little bastard hasn’t done a lick of work besides finding a little firewood.” Thorin shrugged irritably, glowering about as he did visual checks of the company to distract himself from the twist in his belly and the dampness of his ass. 

 

“Where are the boys?” Thorin asked suddenly, realizing he hadn’t seen them in a bit. Dwalin waved a hand to where the two were wiping their faces off, hair wet and clothes damp.

 

“Sorry, Uncle,” Fili said as they ambled over. “We just had to bathe, it’s just--

 

“--the whole camp stinks!” Kili butted in. Thorin resisted the urge to groan.

 

“He’s an Alpha, Kili, and not a Dwarf,” Thorin said lowly. “They don’t take the herbs like you do. So they stink. Be grateful Master Baggins isn’t as bad as the Men I’ve traveled with.” Kili huffed and Fili frowned, toweling his hair off. 

 

“Why doesn’t he? Take the herbs, I mean,” Kili grumbled, taking the damp towel from Fili and scrubbing his own head with it. Fili shrugged.

 

“Maybe Hobbits are like Men,” Fili suggested. Kili paused, scowling, and then resumed toweling his hair off more vigorously.

 

“He’s got another think coming if he thinks we’re all going to be part of some--some harem!” Kili growled. Thorin frowned deeply; he hadn’t considered that. Dwalin cracked his knuckles thoughtfully.

 

Bilbo, having finally decided that the patch of dirt he’d been eyeing was good enough, and close enough to the path to keep watch, glanced over at the rest of the company to see most of the line of Durin glowering spectacularly at him. He gulped, then turned his back to them and began taking things he’d need for the evening from his pack.

 

“Nervous little thing,” Dwalin commented, and the others snorted and huffed and went back to their business.

  
  


The days continued and their burglar still hadn’t proved his worth. Thorin frowned mightily at the herbal tea he was about to drink, wondering if he really needed to. After all, he was so tiny...but Alphas’ strength often was not evident until it was necessary, and could be deceptive, so he upended the cup with a sigh. He was almost two weeks in, and the worst of the mood swings had finally ended, but the strange way Baggins appealed to him remained. 

 

Accursed halfling, with his lack of strength and wit! He’d gotten himself snatched up in seconds thanks to his ever-present scent and his bumbling, and the rest of them had paid the price for it. There was a bruise blooming along Kili’s back where he’d landed after taking Bilbo’s weight, when the trolls had tossed him like the useless lump he was. 

 

And instead of moving off immediately, as he was wont to do, Thorin had to wait to brew a cup of thrice-damned herbal tea because the Hobbit didn’t have the courtesy to take herbs like every other alpha. He grumbled, washing the cup out and ordering the fire stamped out, and everyone loaded up.

  
  
  


As it always did, almost two weeks to the day after he started taking the herbs, Thorin’s ass itched.

 

This was possibly what Thorin hated worst about the suppressants. It itched! And it wasn’t as if like one’s acting king could go scratching his ass on a quest to reclaim one’s homeland. It’s just rude. It was  embarrassing. Thorin hated it almost as much as the grumpiness.

 

Dwalin side-eyed him as they strode along Rivendell’s halls, his eyes perhaps the only ones in the world practiced enough to notice the very, very slight change in his monarch’s gait. He cleared his throat once before smacking Thorin’s arm once and halting.

 

“Just a mo’, got a rock in my boot,” he said gruffly and leaned over fiddle with his foot. Thorin looked one way down the hall--there was nobody--and the other--still clear.

 

He scratched and squirmed until Dwalin cleared his throat again and stood, and they continued on their way.

  
  
  


“Seriously,” Bofur said, exasperated, as the halfling fell asleep at the breakfast table. “Bilbo. Bilbo! Mate, get your face out of your porridge, it’s not on to waste good food like that.”

 

“What!” Bilbo squeaked, sitting straight up and then groaning. Bofur looked concerned.

 

“You know, if you’re having a hard time sleeping, Oin might have sommat for that,” Bofur suggested. Bilbo stared moodily at his porridge.

 

“You lot aren’t sleeping well either,” he finally said. Bofur frowned.

 

“Well o’ course not, surrounded by elves,” Bofur said. “I mean, ‘s not like they’re about to cut our throats in our sleep, but I doubt they’d let us know if the place burned down either. Can’t expect much of a race that left us to die in the wilderness.” Bilbo sighed, poking at his porridge before setting his spoon down roughly and slipping off his chair to stride back down the hall towards their room.

 

Bifur suggested something in his old-as-tits Khuzdul, and Bofur caught the gist of it, shrugging.

 

“Hell if I know,” Bofur said. “I thought he was sleeping alright.”

 

Later, the two returned to their claimed area to find...Bilbo. It seemed he’d dragged everybody’s belongings into a pile and sprawled out on top, snoozing.

 

“Hey now, that’s not all right,” Bofur said, dismayed and shaking Bilbo awake. “If you need more padding, there’s plenty on those elvish contraptions they call beds. Leave off our stuff!” Bilbo snarled quietly and relinquished the pile with poor grace, allowing himself to be herded off to a bedroom and shoved up onto a bed.

 

“You’ll feel better after a little sleep, Bilbo,” Bofur said. Bifur gave a stern warning and agreed, and they closed the door behind them.

 

“Odd little thing,” Bofur huffed. Bifur pointed at the pile of gear, said something Bofur couldn’t catch, and then gestured at his neck and chin. “Oh, no! Surely not. He wouldn’t claim it, that’s just rude!” 

 

Bifur snorted.

 

“All right, he’s a bit different than us,” Bofur allowed. “But surely not. Well, at least he didn’t piss on it all, am I right?” Bifur chuckled, and the two went about untangling the mountain of gear.

  
  
  


“Halfling, keep up!” Thorin hissed as they scrambled up the trail leaving Rivendell. Bilbo’s face snapped back to Thorin’s with a startled expression before he frowned mightily back at the dwarf, and Thorin thought for a moment that the alpha was going to actually snap at him before he turned his eyes back to Bombur’s pack in front of him.

 

Dwalin watched as a bird flew off from a tree behind Bilbo and the hobbit’s eyes snapped to it, and he wondered.

  
  
  
  


“Hey,” Dwalin said suddenly, nudging him gently as he jutted his chin forward to point. “Look!”

 

Thorin’s eyes darted to where Dwalin was pointing, and then he gaped as he watched Bilbo surreptitiously rub the heel of his hand under his jaw and against his neck--where his scent was strongest--before getting up and wandering over to help Bombur, rubbing his hand against the other alpha’s back as he did.

 

Dwalin and Thorin stared, then looked at each other, affronted.

 

“He’s been doing it on purpose!” Dwalin exclaimed. “Thorin, you’ve got to talk to him. That’s just not on.” Thorin growled, staring daggers at the halfling as he helped measure out grains for the stew pot. 

 

“It will do no good,” Thorin bit out. “He’s not one of us. He is not a Dwarf. He’ll expect the same of us as he does of his own culture.” Dwalin grumbled but stayed seated, following the hobbit with his eyes as he went about camp.

 

“Alright, but…” Dwalin began after a time.

 

“But what,” Thorin growled.

 

“I have to wonder what he’s thinking,” Dwalin finished. Thorin snorted.

 

“He is an alpha. We every one of us smell like betas. He is establishing dominance so that if by wild chance we come across an omega, he will have them. Or he is just trying to prove he is on top. It matters not. Either way, he is mistaken.” Dwalin frowned.

 

“He hasn’t taken first alpha’s rights,” Dwalin pointed out. “He eats last, he doesn’t push anyone out of their sleeping space. Hell, Kili snatched the last of his roll out of his hand yesterday and ate it and he didn’t do more than tell him to ask next time. Just like the last three times.” 

 

“Perhaps he’s still intimidated by our relative size,” Thorin said after long moments of thought. Dwalin shrugged.

 

“Perhaps,” Dwalin agreed, deciding he had said enough about it, and went back to rolling out his gear for the evening.

 

Thorin took first watch that night and drank his awful tea and smoked, thinking.

  
  
  


The halfling was a mad thing in the midst of the goblins, snarling and yowling like a wild cat, fighting tooth and nail even as he was bundled into the arms of a larger-than-average goblin and passed back and away from the dwarves. The little being was angry as a mother badger, and Thorin was startled by how strenuously he fought to get back to the Company. The scent of raging alpha was thick and almost dazed him, even on suppressants, and Thorin felt a completely inappropriately-timed sense of satisfaction and arousal and cursed his own dynamic roundly for its poor timing. 

 

His alpha was protecting him fiercely, instinct insisted, and it was a wrenching shock when suddenly he saw Bilbo fall off the walkway, still grappling with the goblin that had been toting him along, and the dark sugar and good smoke scent of him faded.

 

They were swept away in the tide of dirty, slavering goblin-folk, and Thorin’s attention was yanked back to the situation at hand.

  
  
  


Thorin and his Company sprinted out of the goblin tunnels like a runaway mine train, unstoppable at full speed and barreling over everything in their path. When it became apparent they’d lost the horde in the full sunlight, which was very unpleasant for goblins, they slowed like a mine train too. Dwarf bumped against dwarf and glanced off of nearby obstacles, slowing as they did and eventually coming to a halt in a clearing.

 

“Never again,” Bofur moaned. “That stink will be in m’ nose for an Age.” Bombur retched off to the side at the mention as he dragged in air in great sobs and tried to catch his breath. 

 

“Thorin, we can’t stop here,” Dwalin gasped, leaning against his warhammer. “It’s near nightfall and those damn cave-crawling goblins will be on our tails as soon as the mountain’s shadow is on us.” Thorin nodded roughly, chest heaving, and finally stood to take stock of his dwarrow.

 

“Ten, eleven, twelve,” Fili muttered, doing the same, and even past the pounding of his heart Thorin felt a flush of pride at his sister-son. He would be a great king in time. 

 

“And Gandalf,” Fili said, and frowned, looking around wildly. “Uncle, we’re down one!” Thorin scanned the group quickly, hoping against hope, even as he knew who was missing.

 

“Bilbo! Where’s Bilbo?” Gandalf thundered, drawing himself to full height and sweeping towards Thorin. “Thorin Oakenshield, where is my hobbit?”

 

“He’s gone,” Thorin panted, voice low and heart squeezing in his chest. “He was foolish, trying to protect a pack that wasn’t his, and went off the side of the walkway just after we were captured.”

 

“He cared about us!” Bofur snapped, voice raised. “You royal arse, he was our friend and he was trying to--”

 

“It matters not! He is gone!” Thorin shouted back. “He is gone, and we cannot go back for his body. There is no way he survived, and even if he did, he has surely gone back to Rivendell, or to his little dirt hole in the Shire.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Bilbo said loudly, appearing suddenly from behind some trees at the edge of the clearing. Sweet smoke and peat scent bloomed around them as he approached, protective and injured and warm and alive, and Thorin wanted desperately to go to him and scent his neck, his hair, everywhere his scent was strongest to make certain he was really real and in front of them. He gasped, glad they were all still panting and for once relieved he had been drinking his tea, as if he hadn’t he was certain he would’ve been shedding his own scents of attraction and desire and relief and--and--

 

“I’ll not go back to the Shire,” Bilbo said, coming to stop in front of the group. “Not yet. I have my home, my territory where I live and have my cherished memories of family. I have my armchair, and my mother’s Westfarthing dishes, and my father’s pipe, and have never had to worry if I’d have a home to return to, or a place to sleep that night, or food for the day.

 

“I’ve never had to worry about those things. But you have,” Bilbo said, “and it’s not right. You all deserve those things. And nobody else is helping, so even if I’m--if I’m useless, or half the size of Dwarven alphas, or don’t know how to hold a sword. I’ll help you home, if I can.”

 

Now Thorin was really glad he’d been drinking his herbal tea, and that he was sore, and exhausted, and that the entire Company was staring. It helped tamp down on the urge to throw himself on the ground before Bilbo and present his ass like a bitch in heat, and bare his throat, and Mahal help him he’d have begged. Anything to keep this alpha. Anything to keep Bilbo.

 

The howls of wargs behind him helped with that too, actually, and with a shout he goaded the Company into motion as they ran for their lives.

  
  


Thorin watched from the tree branch he dangled from like overripe fruit, waiting for a good gust of wind to blow him down. The crackling of fire and howling of wargs and snapping and groaning of the tree they clung to roared in his ears, and yet he heard the rumble of Azog’s speech as though it had been spoken directly to him in a quiet room. 

 

As in a trance he exerted himself, pulling up to stand on the tree trunk. The world narrowed to scent and sight, the sharp tang of his people’s desperation and pine smoke in his nose and Azog’s ice-bright eyes locked with his. 

 

He drew Orcrist and stepped forward. This was his grandfather’s murderer, the bane of his line; this was the orc who had led the forces that killed his brother, that took his father from him. 

 

This was Azog the Defiler, and Thorin would see him  _ slain _ .

 

Azog sat on his white warg, a grin splitting his face. A battle cry built in Thorin’s chest, and he roared as he charged--

 

Azog kicked his heels once and his warg leapt, great paws catching Thorin right in the chest. He was too exhausted, the flight from the goblin tunnels and the thunder battle before had taken too much from him, and he was too slow to dodge. He slammed into the dirt, the air knocked right out of him, and gasped in pain as the warg crunched down agonizingly and slowly snapped several of his ribs.

 

Azog barked a command and the warg tossed him to a convenient boulder. Orcrist was just out of reach, just a half foot too far, and Mahal no he was going to die here, beheaded like his grandfather, and Fili and Kili would come after him to Mahal’s Halls, he had to move!

 

A foot pressed him back down to the ground and he felt the edge of a blade settle against his neck, readying for the executioner’s strike. The stink of orc was all he could scent now, would be the last thing he ever did. Thorin gasped, trying to draw some other scent into his nose, anything but the orc’s sickness and blood and burning smell, and suddenly he caught Bilbo’s scent.

 

Bilbo crashed into the orc like lightning, burying his Elvish blade in its chest twice, then again to be sure before stumbling back to his feet in front of Thorin. His hair seemed to almost stand on end like a wolf’s ruff, every line of his body screaming defense and protection and  _ don’t-you-fucking-dare _ , and his hands were steady where they held his little Elven blade against the pack of orcs moving towards them. Thorin felt a tiny groan leave him, a gasp of incomprehension--why? Why was this tiny, stupidly-brave alpha here? He would be  _ slaughtered _ .

 

Bilbo planted his furred feet steady, fire glinting gold against the hair of his head and toes, and the furious snarling pouring from his throat told Thorin that  _ they could try _ .

 

Thorin passed out, darkness claiming him through the cloud of Bilbo’s scent, roiling around him like a protective field, and the orc Bilbo had killed staring at him with dead eyes. 

  
  
  
  


“I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin said, the words he’d kept between his teeth finally leaping free. Bilbo, who’d had his dander up again like he was facing another warg, deflated as Thorin abruptly slid to his knees, face just below Bilbo’s. 

 

Thorin tilted his head, baring his neck, and Bilbo’s shocked look was followed by a soft, nearly reverent one.

 

“You’re--?” he asked hesitantly, reaching a hand out to touch Thorin’s neck in acknowledgment of the gesture. He pressed his palm against where Thorin’s scent would be strongest, if he were not on suppressants, and then politely removed his hand again. Thorin tilted his head back straight again and nodded gravely. “I didn’t know. Do dwarf omegas not smell…”

 

Thorin brought a hand up behind Bilbo’s head to push him down slightly. Bilbo’s breath caught and then he sighed as Thorin brought their foreheads to touch before climbing back up from his knees painfully. 

 

“Questions for another time, half--Master Baggins,” Thorin said gruffly. “For now, we are injured, and without supplies, and must move on to find a way to remedy that.” Bilbo’s breath caught a moment and then he nodded decisively, moving over to try and help Thorin walk. Thorin shook him off with a frown.

 

“Just because I am omega doesn’t mean I need your help,” he said warningly. Bilbo looked slightly taken aback, and then embarrassed, and nodded before moving past him to go fetch his little sword up off the rock where he’d dropped it. Thorin glowered after him, wondering if he’d made a mistake, but it was too late--one thing he’d learned long ago was you couldn’t untell a secret. He’d handle it later if Bilbo acted inappropriately.

 

He considered it further later as they tramped down a rock path down the Carrock, as Gandalf named it. Bilbo had been acting inappropriately the entire trip, but the Company had taken Thorin’s example and nobody had told him otherwise, had they? 

 

He mulled it over as they built a fire and roasted fish and mussels Bilbo, Kili, and Gloin had pulled from the river. Why hadn’t he spoken with Bil--Master Baggins about it? It was a simple matter, and he’d had no issues in decades previous with speaking with Men who occasionally signed on to Dwarvish caravans. It was his responsibility as the leader of the expedition to do so, and to insure there were no cultural misunderstandings between members of the Company. He’d accepted that when he’d accepted someone of another race’s contract.

 

But it was Bilbo, Thorin realized. It wasn’t that he was an alpha, or a hobbit. It was that he was Bilbo, and Thorin wanted to let him. It wasn’t offensive as it should have been to his senses. It didn’t make his skin crawl as it had with so many alphas before him.  Why?

 

He’d have to speak with him, Thorin resolved, putting the deeper questions aside. Just because Thorin didn’t personally find his scent offensive didn’t mean he could keep scenting the absolute shit out of their campsites every time they stopped for rest. He owed it to the others to speak with Bilbo as he should have when the issue first came up.

 

Evening came and Thorin realized something.

 

“Thank Mahal, I can quit the tea,” he groaned in relief, allowing his kingly demeanour to take a break as he slumped back against a large rock in the cave they found. 

 

“Ah, fuck,” Dwalin groaned. “Thorin, you just wait until we’re somewhere safe, a’ight? You’re a right ass when you go off the herbs and I’ll not be dragging you off from scuffles while you’re hurt.” Thorin glowered, but it was well-known among the dwarves of Thorin’s Halls that had traveled with him before that Thorin and the heat-suppressing herbs did not get along, especially when he went off of them.

 

(In all fairness, most omegas were a bit...unbalanced when the herbs were leaving their systems. Thorin was just in a position to ban loud noises near his workshop or put dibs on the exotic cacao products that came to market and seemed particularly efficient at mellowing his mood.)

 

“I’ll do as I please,” he replied shortly, and Dwalin groaned. Bilbo, sitting in front of them by the fire, looked bewildered.

 

“Heat-suppressant herbs,” Thorin grunted, and if anything Bilbo only looked further confused.

 

“You don’t take them as a matter of course?” he asked. Thorin huffed, remembering that Baggins was of a different race, and tried to be patient.

 

“Dwarven omegas do not,” he said after a moment. “It does not sit well with us, and often harms our chances of having children significantly.” Bilbo looked alarmed.

 

“How on earth do you handle your--your heats, then?” he stammered, flushing but obviously very concerned. Thorin decided to feel touched by his concern and not irritated. 

 

“Dwarven heats are not like Men’s or Elves’. We do not lose ourselves, nor very often make questionable decisions regarding partners. Most times we are only mildly affected, having maybe a slight fever and a moderate upswing in--Balin, what is the word?” Thorin said something in Khuzdul, clarifying, and Balin replied.

 

“Libido,” Thorin said. Bilbo looked fascinated. “It is more like Men for you halfings, then?”

 

“Hobbits,” Bilbo said. “Halfling is--very rude. But for Hobbits, yes, it is more like Men, but perhaps more intense. Mannish herbs are not useful for us, and both alphas and omegas--well, we don’t quite go out of our gourd,6i but we are quite--desperate, I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “We tend to keep ourselves separate, as such, so that neither of us goes into heat or rut unexpectedly. It’s most inconvenient.” 

 

“More intense than for Men?” Dwalin asked, sounding somewhat alarmed. “But Men have--their alphas are mindless in rut, their omegas almost out of their minds!” Bilbo looked at his foot fur.

 

“Well it is what it is, isn’t it? Not like the herbs Men take help us, so we just--get along best as we can,” he said with a sniff, picking a piece of leaf out of the curls of his feet. “You dwarrow are lucky you found something that does work. It’d be nice not to feel like I have to keep an eye on all of you, as the only alpha. Maybe get a full night of sleep for once. Or remember a rut.”

 

“You don’t remember your ruts, even?” Bofur asked, scandalized, and Thorin realized the entire Company was now listening in. Bilbo shook his head.

 

“Only ever had three, actually,” he confessed. “My first obviously, and one when an omega went into his first heat at a party unexpectedly, and one with an omega who wanted to get in the family way and couldn’t find anyone else to do it for her and her wife.” The assembled dwarrow goggled at the last remark.

 

“Nobody else to--are you joking?” Kili sputtered. Bilbo looked at him with a mild frown.

 

“The other alphas in the area were all bonded,” Bilbo explained with a shrug. “I was the only unbonded alpha in Hobbiton, actually--the other was a lady in Tuckborough, but that’s hours away, and the lass and her wife didn’t feel like going that far.”

 

“Only three ruts, though,” Fili pressed, looking as if he had a suspicion. “And you were the only unbonded alpha in town. You didn’t go out much, did you?” Bilbo shrugged uncomfortably, and Thorin realized he must have been almost ostracized.

 

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a glance, and then Thorin looked at Balin, who raised his eyebrows encouragingly. 

 

“Oin,” Thorin called, “come here.”

 

The old healer creaked to his feet and ambled over.

  
  
  


Bilbo had accepted the revelation that most of the rest of the Company were alphas with relief and astonishment--but mostly relief. And he’d accepted the offer of the herbs all dwarven alphas took, too, looking as though he might actually cry. 

 

Thorin tried not to be too affected by his obvious gratitude. It wasn’t difficult, as he was busy being astonished. Bilbo was not the first to be offered Dwarven herbs, but the many Men who had traveled with them had declined angrily, affronted at the very idea that alphas should be the ones to take herbs. Bilbo was actually watching the kettle as he waited for it to boil. 

 

“It is also a--pff, I do not know the word in Westron. It keeps away pregnancy,” Thorin told him. Bilbo looked like he’d been handed a bar of solid mithril.

 

“If this works for me,” he asked shakily, “please let me take some cuttings back to the Shire. We don’t have many alphas, but it’s a hard life, and we don’t get to be with friends and family much once we come into our first rut, lest we press ourselves on someone unwilling.” Thorin nodded, a soft look in his eyes, and Bilbo let a watery sigh out with a whoosh as he turned back to the kettle.

 

“Well! That’s boiling,” he said, and poured the water into the leaves in his cup to steep.

  
  


After Bilbo had drunk his first cup of herbal tea--thank Mahal the alphas all carried extra, and that it was easily found west of the Misty Mountains--the Company picked themselves up once more and went forth. Gandalf had returned from his foray while Bilbo was pulling a face at the taste of his tea, cast a thoughtful glance at Bilbo, and then announced to Thorin that he knew of shelter nearby.

 

“Who on earth lives this far out in the middle of nowhere?” Nori asked dubiously. Gandalf lifted his robes a little higher to clear a fallen tree branch, grunting with effort theatrically, and didn’t answer.

 

“You’re sure we’ll be welcome?” Balin pressed, seeing that the wizard was ignoring Nori and having a sudden suspicion. 

 

“I’m sure Mr. Gandalf wouldn’t lead us somewhere we’d be hurt,” Dori sniffed, reaching forward to vigorously slap some rock dust from the goblin’s home off Ori’s back.

 

“Mm-hm,” Nori replied, bored, and kept walking.

 

Thorin put one foot in front of the other, doing his best to keep his breathing even and shallow, and worried. Bilbo’s culture was very far from his own. If their ruts were so severe, would he treat Thorin differently now? Would the Dwarven herbs allow him to keep his wits about him?

 

Men treated their omegas like fragile crystal formations, afraid if they stepped too strongly or spoke too loudly around them, they would shatter. What if Hobbits did the same? It hadn’t sounded like it, but…

 

Thorin didn’t want to lose the respect and the friendship they already had.

 

The trail was thickly overgrown, but whatever animals frequented it were of good size, and so the dwarrow didn’t have too much work to do cutting their way through. Gandalf eventually led them to a great field of green, lush with little round pink and white flowers, and Bilbo chatted with Bifur, through Bofur, about the plants.

 

“Excellent for livestock,” Bilbo explained, “Cattle and goats back home love it. It helps improve the soil, too, so a lot of farmers will have a crop going in a resting field and let their stock graze.” Bifur spoke, and Bofur translated.

 

“He says he sees a lot of bees on it, every time he sees it.” Bilbo smiled.

 

“It makes good honey,” he said, and suddenly contorted, throwing himself sideways as something large zipped into his peripheral vision. “What is--!”

 

“It’s just a honeybee, burglar!” Dwalin burst out laughing. “I know you take your duties seriously, but I don’t think it’s gonna attack!” The Company laughed, and Bilbo scowled.

 

“That wasn’t a honeybee!” he retorted. “That thing was at least the size of my fist!”

 

“Well, it’s got stripes and it’s fuzzy and it’s on the flower there by the side of the road,” Dwalin chuckled, arms crossed. And it was. Bilbo blinked, sniffed his nose a bit in confusion.

 

“That’s the largest bee I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said. Dwalin shrugged.

 

“It’s all big and strange out here over rock,” he said, and they turned to march on, some stopping to admire the overlarge insect as they passed.

 

When an hour later they finalled arrived at an astonishingly large gate, Gandalf called them to a halt and gestured Thorin closer.

 

“Beorn is not overly fond of dwarves, but he won’t turn us away,” he reassured them. Thorin scowled. “Thorin, as the leader of this company, you and I shall approach him first.” Bilbo and Dwalin bristled simultaneously, and Fili and Balin frowned mightily.

 

“He’s injured, he shouldn’t be going by himself,” Bilbo snapped, perfuming the air around him with a territorial scent message. Dwalin scoffed as Thorin leveraged a mighty glare at the hobbit. 

 

“I am going,” he declared lowly, and he and Gandalf walked through the gate, leaving the Company behind with instructions to arrive at intervals. 

 

Beorn turned out to be an exceedingly tall man, who was sometimes a bear, and always furry enough to almost be a dwarf (size aside). He was chopping wood as they approached, and stopped long enough to ask why they were on his land. Thorin noted he had excellent eyebrows as Beorn took a deep whiff of the air and then rumbled.

 

“You put an omega in danger, wizard,” he said, and Thorin’s spine snapped straight. 

 

“I am the leader of this company!” he shot back. Beorn grumbled, setting the ax down and lumbering towards Thorin.

 

“You are an omega, and you are injured,” Beorn said. “I will give you safe haven until you are healed, for your kind are precious.” Thorin bristled, and then caught Beorn’s scent. Sweet like honey, and yeast-bread and beer, and omega. Thorin deflated, puzzled, and Beorn laughed.

 

“Call your company,” he said. “I would like to meet the ones who would follow you into battle, and give them an earful--they should take better care of their leader.” Thorin’s chest puffed up again in protest before he winced, broken ribs reminding him that deep breaths were a bad idea, and he conceded with a sharp nod and tucked his lower lip into his mouth to whistle sharply.

 

It was impressive how quickly Bilbo came charging around the corner, leading the rest of the Company by a body length and his hair standing off his neck and feet again like it had during the fight with Azog. It made him look considerably larger than he was, actually, and the fierce scent of threat-protect-fight that came with him made Thorin’s pants go a little wet.

 

It was a good job his tunic and furs disguised erections very well, Thorin thought dazedly. Bilbo came snarling to pull up short in front of Thorin, tiny hissing and spitting noises escaping him even as he visibly struggled not to be outright offensive.

 

“Master Beorn has offered us assistance,” Thorin said as the rest of the company came thundering up. 

 

“Mahal’s left nut, Thorin, we thought you needed help,” Dwalin complained. Thorin shrugged, regretting it mildly as his ribs twinged again.

 

“Apologies,” he said flatly, watching Bilbo deflate perplexedly, and Beorn showed them to their rooms. 

  
  


Thorin, being an omega and the most seriously injured, was allotted an actual guest room. The rest of his company was given the great room down the hall to camp in, where the floor was well padded with hay as though for livestock. Thorin was glad he had the bed, as he hated sleeping on bare straw. He always ended up picking bits out of his hair for days.  _ All _ his hair. Everywhere. Nothing like straw in your groin hairs when you didn’t even take your pants off in the hay.

 

It wasn’t as though Thorin couldn’t or hadn’t slept in hay piles before in barns for free shelter when traveling. Or that he complained about the straw-stuffed pallets that were their mattresses since the fall of Erebor. 

 

But Thorin had been raised a prince, and had been accustomed to luxury. He made do, and didn’t let many know that he’d never quite lost his taste for finer things. The feather-tick mattress and soft, fine linen sheets on the bed Beorn presented to him were absolutely beautiful, and he groaned in enjoyment as he laid down carefully after he’d been left to strip off his and clothing.

 

This would definitely make his irritability the first few days after he stopped drinking his tea better, he decided happily, and sighed as he reached down to start popping buttons to let Oin look at him.

 

He needed to have a conversation with Master Baggins, he decided once he’d gotten his mail and gambeson off and started on the tunic underneath. It was fair stuck to his skin with sweat and blood, and he decided he’d ask Oin to help him get it over his head--the mail had been hard enough, and he couldn’t twist quite right to do this without reopening his wounds.

 

“Oin,” he yelled through the door, and as expected the healer had been waiting just outside the door for him. He bustled in with a bowl of warm water and a rag, and got to work soaking the tunic where the fabric stuck to him. They managed to pull the shirt up and over his back carefully but several places still stuck in the front, so Oin handed him the wetted rag.

 

“Hold that while I take a look at your back,” Oin instructed, and Thorin obeyed. As much as Thorin would try and put off his healer’s attention when they were in an uncertain situation, he knew from long experience that once they were safe his healer’s word was law. And besides--no good ever came from rampant infection. Best heal as quickly as possible.

 

“You’ve got some bad bruising back here,” Oin reported loudly. Thorin nodded, not bothering with words. “No punctures in back. Very good.” He felt along Thorin’s ribs, then started peeling the tunic off the open wounds. 

 

“These aren’t too deep either, looks like,” Oin muttered. He probably thought he was muttering, anyway; it was still overloud in Thorin’s face. “Good. More blood here than there ought to be, though, for this size punctures...I expect Gandalf had a hand in that. Well, as long as his magic didn’t seal any nastiness in there you should be fine. Gonna hurt, I gotta get the rest of this dirt off.” WIth that warning, he began scrubbing the wound, debris coming away with the rag whenever he rinsed it in the bowl.

 

Thorin winced and flinched, trying to stay still and impassive, and was so busy with that he almost missed what Oin was saying.

 

“...and I know you’re going to want to lay claim to all the sweets in the house, but you’ll need to eat more meat instead since you’re recovering and your body needs it. Also, no sex until I give you the all clear - shouldn’t be more than a few days, but I’ll not have you offing yourself because you couldn’t wait to get a leg over.” Thorin made a scandalized, high-pitched noise that he denied to his dying day.

 

“Just who do you think I’m going to be laying with?” he demanded. “Dwalin? My nephews? Come now, Oin!” Oin gave him an unimpressed look.

 

“Everybody saw you bare your neck to Baggins, you’re aware,” he said. Thorin frowned, shifting slightly.

 

“I was imparting to him a great secret of our people,” Thorin muttered. “An act of trust for someone who has proven themselves dwarf-friend.”

 

“Dwarf more than friend, if you have your way I think,” Oin snorted, “You don’t fool me none, Thorin. No sex until I’ve made sure your ribs won’t puncture your lungs and drown you in your own blood.”

 

Thorin grumbled something under his breath, but nodded, and Oin continued his work.

  
  


It was much later that evening when Thorin finally left his room. The bed was too good, and he’d fallen asleep soon after Oin had finished with wrapping his ribs and bandaging the remaining open wounds. Unfortunately, his muscles and bruises had stiffened in the meantime, and he felt like tumbled gemstones from head to toe.

  
He eased down into a chair at the table and gestured with his chin towards the platter of food. Balin handed it to him easily. Thorin thanked him and loaded his plate.

 

“Master Baggins,” he called casually down the table after a few bites. “I’d have a word with you after dinner.” Bilbo looked at him like an ambushed rabbit before visibly swallowing and nodding. Thorin frowned, worried he’d snapped too angrily or otherwise offended him. Dismissing the concern as best left to later, Thorin ate steadily, plowing through the plate he’d put together and finishing it with the fresh, rich milk Beorn had laid out pitchers of at the table.

 

He nodded to Bilbo and pushed away from the table and walked back towards his own room, then slowed to allow Bilbo to catch up. The little alpha stepped up next to him in a fluster, hair tousled from where he’d been dragging a hand through it and fussing with the curls.

 

“What did you wish to speak to me about, Master Oakenshield?”

 

“Thorin will suffice, Master Baggins. Oakenshield is an epithet, not a surname.” 

 

“Well, why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?” Bilbo burst as Thorin opened the door to his room and gestured him in. “I’ve been naming you wrong this whole time. And practically all of you are alphas. Except you, who is an omega! What else have I been wrong about?” Thorin tugged the hem of his tunic and cleared his throat before straightening and fixing Bilbo with his most regal stare.

 

“Bilbo Baggins, of Bag-End, of the Shire,” Thorin intoned, voice like thunder, “I, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thor, of the royal and unending line of Durin, hereby bequeath upon you the title of Dwarf-friend.” Bilbo sputtered and his ears and hair went lax in disbelief. Thorin thundered on.

 

“You will be made welcome in my kingdom, and honored with the title of Kingsguard for your loyalty and willing heart; one fourteenth share of the royal treasury’s excess budget shall be given in your name, as well as the finest available housing. A formal ceremony will be conducted once we have welcomed the first five hundred dwarrow back to their home, and you will be clothed in the finest velvets and gems available. You will be--”

 

“Now see here, Thorin Oakenshield, or son of Thrain, or whatever’s appropriate,” Bilbo finally interrupted. “I don’t need all that, and I won’t have it. Kingsguard, of all things! I ran a single orc through with a sewing needle, Dwalin calls it, not took on a plot to murder the royal family en masse or campaigned to win a war or even taste-tested your food for poison.” Thorin now looked thunder- _ struck _ , and his brow furrowed deeply in confusion; he and Bilbo stared at each other, each trying to understand, before Bilbo continued in a quieter voice.

 

“I did what I did because nobody else was going to be able to, and because--well, I can’t quite imagine your story ending like that,” Bilbo said. “I don’t need all that pomp and ceremony.”

 

“Although...I wouldn’t mind being welcome,” he added quietly.

 

Thorin took a shallow breath, then let it out carefully. He tilted his head slightly to study Bilbo’s face and then nodded slowly.

 

“You will still be named dwarf-friend,” he said, “but you need not stay if you wish. You will always be welcome in Erebor.” Bilbo smiled, a fond, grateful expression, and Thorin smiled back.

 

“Now,” he said, clapping a hand (gently) to Bilbo’s shoulder, “we have much to discuss.”

 

They spoke of dwarrow culture. Mostly, Thorin explained that Bilbo had overstepped his boundaries on a daily basis at camp, and Bilbo reminded him that he had only needed to explain for him to understand and stop. They both flushed a bit in the end to think of how foolishly they had acted, and laughed to relieve the tension.

 

“Dwarrow are not ruled by their dynamic as Hobbits seem to be,” Thorin remarked. Bilbo shrugged, searching his pockets for an apple he knew he’d stowed at dinner. “Alphas are not expected to protect or pamper their omega partners, and same -dynamic marriages are not unheard of.”

 

“And your heats and ruts aren’t impossible,” Bilbo huffed, finding the apple finally and pulling it out to buff a bit of dirt off before taking a bite. Thorin chuckled.

 

“They aren’t pleasant,” he agreed, “but they’re manageable. Most find a partner, or we have aids. There is an excellent spice they trade sometimes in Ered Luin that I find helps with the irritability, and with two nephews it was rare there was not some mess I could clean to sate nesting instincts.” Bilbo blushed again but looked fascinated.

 

“Aids?” Thorin matched Bilbo’s blush.

 

“In case one doesn’t wish to take a partner,” he said. “Surely there is something similar in the Shire?”

 

“Most in the Shire are content with betas or one of us few alphas,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “The other alphas always got asked a lot more than I did for that sort of thing, but none of us spent ruts with others often. Bit of a stigma. I was always seen as odd, too, but I couldn’t--they go out of their heads in heats, you understand. It felt wrong. I felt wrong.” His eyes were downcast, old shame lingering in his chest.

 

“I’ve always enjoyed the times I had a heat partner; it is a pity you don’t recall your few,” Thorin tried to be comforting, and Bilbo snorted, then took another loud bite of his apple.

  
“Tell me more about Dwarrows,” he said after he swallowed, more question than command, and Thorin complied. He spoke, and spoke, and told tales of Erebor, and Ered Luin. Thorin told Bilbo of the family and friends he’d had, of hard winters with good cheer and cheap wine, and in return Bilbo told him about the beauty of the Shire and the land that loved its owners well. Slowly they both slid down in their seats, exhausted but still speaking. Eventually both laid down on the foot and head ends of the bed, Thorin climbing up to rest against the headboard and Bilbo laying on his back across the foot. It was very late, and the candle had burned low, when Thorin started and realized they’d both fallen asleep. He took a deep breath of Bilbo’s scent in the air (warm, dark, comfortable, safe) before carefully rolling down and onto his back and closing eyes to go back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin woke the next morning comfortable. Ridiculously comfortable, actually--Mahal bless the shapechanger and his bed! He was warm, with a soft blanket, and he could smell something lovely. Slowly he stretched, wincing when he shifted a touch too far, and luxuriated in not needing to be awake and in charge as soon as his eyes opened.

 

It was wonderful until he recalled that he hadn’t seen his company bed down last night, and he groaned but sat up and looked around blearily to wake Bilbo.

 

Bilbo had apparently left already, and Thorin nodded to himself. He might sneak up on the dragon after all. He rolled carefully off the bed, scratched at where the tunic he was wearing had pulled a bit at his chest hair, and then at his head where he had neglected to unbraid his Line of Durin braids before sleeping.

 

Feeling slightly better, he forwent boots until he could warm up his stiff and abused body a bit and padded out to the kitchen.

 

About half of his dwarrow were already awake, mostly seated at the breakfast table looking fatigued but in better shape than when they laid down last night, and Thorin had to satisfy himself that they’d slept and hadn’t been hurt or been run off. Usually, he was second to wake--right after Kili, the impossible thing.Thorin still didn’t know how he ran so wildly onprobably five hours of sleep. This morning he was up late, but he’d been up late speaking with Bilbo, and he was injured. 

 

Bilbo was sitting at the table, cup of coffee in hand while he munched on leftovers from the night before and a bowl of hot oats. Thorin could see the coffee was sweet and creamy, just as the oats were, and tried to remember the last time he’d had coffee that wasn’t the same color as dirt.

 

“Someone better pass his majesty the carafe if you value your lives,” Fili joked, and Bilbo started before handing it down the table apologetically. 

 

“Mahal bless,” Thorin mumbled as he doctored it to his preference and then groaned deeply when he took a sip.

 

“My thanks,” he said with a sigh, and wondered why Bilbo looked so overwarm.

 

“Not at all,” Bilbo muttered, and proceeded to demolish his oats. Thorin watched him take his bowl back to the kitchen and then watched him return with seconds, and then watched as the scene repeated itself for a third helping.

 

“Have we been starving you there, Bilbo?” Bofur called to the hoots and laughter of the rest of those at the table.

 

“Well, a bit,” Bilbo laughed. The others laughed with him, but started to look uneasy after he had fourth and fifth helpings, and downright concerned when he started in on a small plate of honeycakes after.

 

“A bit?” Thorin asked, wondering when his little hobbit stomach would rupture.

 

“It’s been a while since I had enough for second breakfast, and elevensies, too,” Bilbo said defensively as he pulled his plate closer.

 

“...second breakfast?” Kili asked, watching him swallow the last of his food and sit back with a sigh to sip at his coffee.

 

“Well, yes. I know we haven’t time on the road and all but honestly some snacks to eat on the go wouldn’t go amiss.”

 

“How much do you usually eat, then, Mr. Baggins?”

 

“Six or seven meals, depending,” Bilbo said with a shrug. “About four if I’m feeling poorly, like a fever, or maybe nine if I’ve a cold, but usually six or seven.”

 

“...we’ve been starving you,” Bofur said.

 

“Well...yes. But just a bit.” Bilbo looked uncomfortable at the following silence and slipped back off the stool to wash his plate and they heard the front door open and close as he presumably wandered out for a smoke.

 

“Greedy little people,” Gloin said after a minute and Balin huffed.

 

“Use your eyes. He didn’t look fat when we arrived, and he was eating that much,” Balin reproached. “I think perhaps we owe him better, along with an apology.” Gloin looked abashed and nodded, staring down at his own breakfast moodily.

 

They all finished their breakfasts, mood somber as they chewed and considered their companion.

  
  


“What do Hobbit omegas do during their heats, then?” Bofur asked a couple of days later as the Company rested and worked on their gear. Ori looked interested, turning his journal to a page towards the back where he wouldn’t be interrupting his narrative and waited for Bilbo to answer. 

 

“We have specific rooms for them,” Bilbo grunted, trying to carve new buttons for his waistcoat and remembering why he disliked wood carving. Fiddly little bits would be the death of him!    
“That way we don’t have all those smells hanging around all month. Can you imagine? Sheets that still smelled of heat, or a sitting chair, and omega or alpha guests being able to smell it!”

 

“And those that don’t have the resources for separate rooms?” Ori asked without looking up.

 

“Oilcloth drop clothes, I believe,” Bilbo said. “One of the other alphas--a cousin of mine, actually, Drogo Baggins--uses that anyway if I recall correctly. Said he got tired of all the laundry and he’d rather just wash it with a bucket and store the cloth in a shed in the meantime. Meant he had to keep his shed locked, though; some of the omega tweens took to necking in his shed where his scent was lingering.” 

 

Ori’s eyes had gone round as he listened. “They didn’t!” he whispered, scandalized but loving it. Bilbo laughed.

 

“Of course they did! Even between our heat periods hobbits are an energetic bunch. All that primness is just for looks, I promise you.” Bilbo grinned. “It’s gotten more amusing the longer I’ve been gone, really.”

 

“Still, I can understand,” Bilbo continued, eyeing the round disc he’d finally managed to carve and wondering if Bofur or Bifur had managed to save an awl when they’d lost their packs. “It is a rather lot of fun! It was just rude to use somebody else’s scent for it without their permission.”

 

“Damn right it is!” Nori called from across the room, and the dwarrow relaxing in groups around them laughed. Laying back against a pile of hay as he repaired his mail, Thorin scowled. “Nothing like a little uh, uh, uh--”

 

“That’s enough, Nori,” Ori said blandly as he tossed a balled-up sock at him. Nori caught it, checking where Ori had darned it earlier and stowed it in his bag.

 

“You must do your negotiations well in advance, I imagine,” Balin remarked. Bilbo nodded. “Ah, so do we! There’s fierce competition for omegas’ affections, though we try and keep a civil head about it. Omegas get last word, and alphas are expected to be respectable about it and spending a heat with one is not an invitation to have children with them.”

 

“Really! So there’s no, uh…” Bilbo tried to carefully use the tip of his carving knife to whittle out button holes, concentrating.

 

“Knotting?” Bofur supplied, and Bilbo’s hand slipped and he broke the button. 

 

“Yes. Ah, that,” he said, flustered. He pulled another piece of wood scrap towards him and forlornly started over.

 

“Aye, that’s another thing that’s agreed on ahead of time,” Bofur said with a satisfied grin. “Usually if you’re bonded it’s a matter of course, but not many unbonded couples will go ahead and knot on their first go round.”

 

“So you don’t have children right away?” Bilbo hazarded. Bofur laughed.

 

“No, we don’t have kids that easy nowadays, anywho! It’s just a bit...intimate. And bothersome. I mean, you spend ages stuck together, you gotta want it, aye?” 

 

“Well, but isn’t it still fun when you’re stuck?” Bilbo said. A few of the dwarrow glanced at him and then at Thorin and Balin to see what they’d say before going back to what they were doing. “No?”

 

“Not much for the omega,” Thorin answered. “So it’s something that one might ask for, if they know their heat will be stronger than normal, but not really something enjoyable the rest of the time.” 

 

Bilbo digested that as he carved. Another ten minutes passed in quiet before he finally gave up on buttons and decided to go see if he could potter about in the garden beds and do some good there instead.

 

After an inspection Bilbo decided to work in the herbs and sank his hands deep in the earth to root out a dandelion that was crowding out the rosemary. It was good to see the same herbs so far away from home, with their familiar shapes, smells, and and needs. Rosemary couldn’t quite compete with dandelions when it was young, but as it grew could overshadow it easily; lavender here was larger than the variety at home, but still needed more sand in its soil than sage. He could nip the flowers off of the marigolds and they’d bloom again, and salvia attracted bees to the garden.

 

Dwarven omegas didn’t need alphas, he thought to himself, and tested the words’ taste to himself. 

 

It was true, for the most part, of Shire denizens too--that wasn’t the part that was unbelievable to him, really. They were just so casual about it all! An entire pack of alphas traveling with a single omega? The idea was horrifying, if he thought of them as Hobbits instead of Dwarrow. The omega would be destroyed, and the alphas too once they woke from their ruts and realized what they’d done. 

 

It just didn’t seem safe, he shuddered, and then started the mental exercise over, but with Dwarrow. This time, he recalled his friends and their interactions and thought to himself that if Thorin hadn’t told him, Bilbo would have never known they were all anything but betas. 

 

Bilbo wondered what it would be like to not be treated as a potential double rapist and victim by people in his everyday life.

 

The afternoon continued into evening, and Bilbo wondered what it was like to remember your ruts. He wondered what Thorin looked like in heat. He wondered about the alphas Thorin had spent his heats with, and if they appreciated Thorin’s trust.

 

Twilight fell, cooling the garden, and the flowers became even more fragrant; the cool and moist air helped facilitate their scent. Bilbo dusted his hands off finally and breathed deeply, wondering what he smelled that was so lovely. It was a bit musky, and had a tang to it like fresh-cut grass, overlaid with hearth-fire and something like how sun-warmed stone felt. 

 

“You’ve been out here for hours,” Thorin said as he rounded the garden bed. Bilbo jumped; he should’ve smelled Thorin halfway across the garden! Though to be fair, he’d never scented Thorin before. Probably a good thing, too, since he smelled amazing, and unfortunately alpha parts were not easy to hide when excited. Bilbo bent down to dust off his knees and tried to discreetly adjust his trousers as he did.

 

“Yes, well, I thought I’d try and give back to Beorn as best I could, and gardening is what I know best here,” he said, wiping his face and neck down with a makeshift handkerchief. Thorin tracked the movement with his eyes and tried to remember what he’d come out to say.

 

“Well, when you’re done, Bombur has supper prepared,” he finally decided on, straightening his tunic before standing and folding his arms behind him. Among dwarrow this was a trusting, casual gesture, though Thorin knew it also lentitself well to more formal gatherings, as it kept the front of your garments fitted to the chest and shoulders and necessitated a straight posture. He couldn’t keep himself as royally poised as he wanted to due to his ribs, but it was enough. He tried not to think about why he was trying to look impressive, and also tried not to think about Bilbo’s sugar-and-whiskey scent.

 

“Oh, very good,” Bilbo said, “I’ll be right there.” He couldn’t get over Thorin’s scent, and the pressure on the front of his trousers was getting more intense; Bilbo had no wish to embarrass himself or Thorin, and thought he could settle a bit before heading in. But Thorin stood, waiting. “Really, I’ve got to just, uh, finish putting some things away and I’ll head inside.”

 

“I will help you,” Thorin said graciously, and began walking around to find the tools Bilbo was talking about. Bilbo tried to demur again and Thorin seemed to not even realize, instead chancing upon a trowel that Bilbo had not been using (perhaps Beorn had left it there) and bending over painfully to pick it up. 

 

“There, that seems to be all,” Thorin announced, and Bilbo couldn’t help but be a little exasperated. Fond, but exasperated, and mostly relieved that time and hearing Thorin in pain had helped his erection abate.

 

“Thank you,” Bilbo huffed, “alright, let’s go see what’s to eat.”

  
  


Over dinner, Bilbo mentioned that he hadn’t been able to scent Thorin as easily as he usually could an omega, and Oin explained that it was due to the herbal tea taking effect. Bilbo supposed that made sense, though it was a rather unexpected side effect to him.

 

“Perfectly normal,” Fili reassured him. “Though since you could scent Uncle, I guess that means it’s almost out of his system.” 

 

“And not a single confection in sight!” Gloin laughed. Thorin glowered and took a vicious bite of his honey cake. “My mistake, there it is!” The table broke out in laughter, Dwalin roaring and pounding the table.

 

“Uncle’s usually very moody when he stops taking the herbs,” Kili confided in stage whisper. 

 

“He’s a badly-shored mine, he is,” Dwalin interjected. Bofur and Bifur snickered loudly.

 

“Right knob, he means,” Fili clarified, and Thorin finally snapped, roaring in Khuzdul before stalking off.

 

“...I might be scared, if...”

 

“--if he hadn’t taken the honey cake with him,” Fili finished, and everyone laughed again. 

 

Later, Fili and Kili got theirs when they were assigned to second watch, and Thorin considered all forgiven when they saved a piece of blackberry buckle for him the next morning.

 

He chewed thoughtfully, savoring the tart-sweet berry confection. The butter in the pastry dough topping lent it an almost savory flavor, and the sugar in the filling set it all off together nicely. 

 

“Balin, remind me to compliment Beorn on his baking,” Thorin said absentmindedly as he concentrated on using the edge of his spoon to meticulously scrape the traces of blackberry filling down the sides of the bowl, towards the rest of the remaining dessert. Balin grunted genially, mouth full of scrambled eggs (the only real protein Beorn seemed to keep on hand).

 

“Twasn’t Beorn,” Dori said, watching Thorin with as politely disapproving an eye as one dared with their monarch. “There’s more in the kitchen if you like, Bilbo made plenty,” he hinted, hoping Thorin would just get a second helping rather than continue making the nerve-grating wood on wood squeaking noises with his spoon.

 

Thorin continued carefully devouring his dessert with an absent, thoughtful hum. Dori huffed, his hint having been lost on Thorin, and got up to go help with the washing.

 

Now that Dori mentioned it, Thorin could almost taste Bilbo in the dough. Perhaps he’d kneaded the dough by hand? Thorin took an inconspicuous sniff before he took his next bite.

 

“I’m glad you like it!” Bilbo’s voice came suddenly from behind him, and he jolted, dropping the spoonful onto the table. 

 

“Good Mahal, you’re quiet,” Thorin coughed, and the scent of honey-sweet concern colored Bilbo’s peat and smoke smell. 

 

“Well, you hired a burglar,” Bilbo said, thumping his back a bit harder than he might have with another hobbit. It was still quite lighter than another dwarf would have done. 

 

“And a baker, it seems,” Thorin said, clearing his throat one last time before eyeing the buckle in the bowl before him and deciding it was worth another chance. “This is excellent.”

 

“Yes, thank you,” Bilbo said nervously, twisting his thumbs against his bracers. “My mother’s recipe, actually. Well, her mother’s, at least--my mother could cook well enough but my grandmum was far better with improvising new recipes. This one was famous in the Shire.” Thorin nodded; he could see why, as he was gathering up the last little bit of filling and crumbs from the bottom of the bowl. “And Fili and Kili mentioned that--I mean, there were these lovely brambles just across the clover, and I said they’d be about ripe.”

 

Thorin stopped trying to suck the flavor of sugar and berries and cinnamon off the spoon and fixed Bilbo with a considering look. Bilbo smelled...nervous, as he usually did around Thorin, but also like nerves--bright lightning-strike scent--and concern, and a resurgence of his natural alpha smell.

 

“...Fili and Kili told you I like blackberries,” Thorin guessed, and Bilbo’s face flushed.

 

“They did,” he admitted. Thorin studied him more.

 

“And you decided to bake this,” Thorin went on. Bilbo’s blush darkened, but he held his gaze steady with Thorin’s and nodded curtly.

 

“We, ah, Hobbits,” he explained, “I think many races must do this, but we show affection with our food. Regard. Sometimes intent.” His ears colored now, and Thorin watched in fascination. “Threats, even! You should have seen what my mother cooked this one lass who came courting. She was after my inheritance, really, and we all knew it! Mother cooked some sort of...goodness, I don’t even know how she made something taste that bad and look that good, but she did.”

 

Thorin realized that the dining room was silent, and that the rest of their Company had slipped out as they spoke, off to put away their dishes and rest or mend their gear or spar. He and Bilbo were alone, and it relaxed him for some reason. 

 

“Do you scent it somehow?” Thorin asked. 

 

“Not at all,” Bilbo frowned. “Why?” 

 

“I thought maybe you had, but perhaps I simply smelled you approaching behind me,” Thorin offered in an attempt to break the awkward pause in the conversation. Bilbo accepted that explanation and finally slid up to sit next to Thorin, his own bowl of blackberry buckle in hand. 

 

“Sense of smell often becomes unpredictable while you’re beginning the herbal tea, or sometimes when you stop,” Thorin said, eyeing Bilbo’s bowl.

 

“Does it affect how well you can smell, or does it also change how people smell to you?” Bilbo asked curiously. “I’ve noticed fainter smells are harder to pick up now, but the scent is more...blurry? Like I’ve taken off a pair of reading glasses.” Thorin nodded and watched Bilbo take a spoon of dessert into his mouth. Bilbo dragged the spoon out of his mouth against his lips, and Thorin tracked the movement closely, licking his lips.

 

“Just so,” Thorin said, and it came out a little rougher than he’d anticipated. He felt his cock plump beneath the table and he shifted to sit back a little further onto his tail bone to relieve some of the pressure against his ass. Bilbo took his time with his next bite, perhaps thinking further about the changes the herbal tea might instill in him. He took his time with the spoon in his mouth, rubbing the flat of his tongue against the curve of the spoon, and Thorin watched the drag of Bilbo’s lips as he pulled it free.

 

The third time it happened, Thorin let out a rough exhale by accident and Bilbo’s eyes snapped to him.

 

Bilbo stared intently at him, eyes narrowed as he sniffed delicately, mouth open to catch the scent better. He finally grasped it, eyes going wide, and his mouth snapped shut. Thorin suddenly realized that Hobbits might not lose their sense of smell at the same rate as Dwarrow, and that Bilbo was scenting Thorin’s arousal.

 

“You--”

 

There was only seconds in which to make his decision, and Thorin always went with his instinct when making snap decisions.

 

“Yes,” he replied. Bilbo’s eyes went up to his hairline and he turned to stare at his bowl before turning back to Thorin incredulously.

 

“Really?” he asked. Thorin lifted a single eyebrow at him and nodded slowly.

 

“Why?” Bilbo asked.

 

“I haven’t any idea,” Thorin replied honestly, and Bilbo made a half-whimper, half-laugh, strangled sort of sound before scrambling off his seat and making a flustered exit.

 

Thorin was left sitting alone in the dining room, at a table twice too big for him, and the fading scent of anxiety and Alpha.

 

“Mahal,” he muttered, irritated with himself, and reached over to snag Bilbo’s abandoned bowl. 

Bilbo walked as quickly as he could out of the dining room before taking off in a sprint through the kitchen and down the hall. He ducked into a broom closet that held buckets that reached his chest and curled up against one and worked to calm his breathing. Breath came in through his nose, bringing a faint scent of Thorin with it that did nothing to help his erection, so he snorted air back out to try and clear his nose. (Unattractive, he knew, but necessary.) The next breath had less of the Dwarf in it, and more vinegar from the cleaning supplies in the closet. He continued until his pants were finally comfortable to be in again and he could leave the closet without embarrassing himself.

 

Now that he was done hyperventilating, he eased back out into the hallway and slipped outside through a side door that looked designed for those shorter than Beorn. The fresh air helped clear his head the rest of the day and Bilbo felt his shoulders fall slack.

 

Thorin smelled amazing. And had been bold, so bold. And Bilbo had panicked and almost literally run away.

 

“What in all that’s good is wrong with me?” Bilbo asked, stunned, and was unsurprised to get no answer.

  
  


The next few days made a full week at Beorn’s, and Thorin felt himself chafe more and more and the delay. It wasn’t until the third day of his snapping at everyone in sight except Bilbo that Thorin realized with a groan what was happening. 

 

Bilbo had made blackberry scones, and sheepishly offered some to Thorin before anyone else--an apology, Thorin realized. Some dark part of the back of his brain had crowed, delighted that his Alpha was providing for him, and he’d gone a little wet at the thought.

 

Except that wasn’t usually something that really  _ did it _ for him, and that’s what made him realize. He’d been sweating at night, and woken with early stone that made pissing when he woke  impossible, and now he was getting wet at a scone? 

 

He was going into heat. Thorin crammed the scone into his mouth and chewed, stalling for time as he processed his revelation.

 

Well. There were no tools here for him to care for himself during his heat. He could try and start taking his herbal tea again and see if it stalled his heat, but personal past experience had proven that it was a slim chance it would work, and it was only stalled. 

 

No, better to ride it out here where they were relatively safe on Beorn’s lands. Thorin groaned; none of the rest of the Company were past heat partners with him, and all were on the herbal tea, which would make it difficult for them to knot. When they were in their homeland, there were toys that simulated knotting and took the pressure off Alphas and Omegas during an Omega’s heat, but again--here, they had none. Thorin only went into heats twice a year, now that he was older, and hadn’t expected to have one while on a grueling physical journey.

 

“Dis will have my ass,” he muttered. Bilbo watched him from the corner of his eye, perplexed and concerned, and Thorin realized he’d said that out loud.

 

“Excuse me. The scones are very good, thank you,” he said and went to find Oin.

 

“There’s nothing I can do that you haven’t thought of already,” Oin confirmed apologetically. “You know your own history. The entire Company has been on the herbal tea long enough to prevent conception, so you’ll have your pick.” Thorin was silent, keeping the question on his mind behind his teeth. Oin eyed him knowingly.

 

“Yes, even Bilbo,” Oin said loudly after a long pause. Thorin flinched, then ducked his head. Oin decided to be even more deaf than usual. “Did y’hear me, Thorin? Bilbo’s good to go for a rut, so you can--” 

 

“Yes, thank you Oin,” Thorin shouted, nodding emphatically and standing. “Excuse me, I must go. Preparations.” 

 

“I don’t think he’ll want reparations, Thorin, honestly, you weren’t that awful,” Oin shouted back, and Thorin glowered back at him as he left the room. Damn old healer wasn’t deaf at all, he was just rusted in the head!

 

Thorin had hoped that Oin had some sort of...uncommon herbal remedy, or an ointment, something that’d put this off. He’d never had so much of an issue deciding on a heat partner before; usually, he’d ask someone he knew and who didn’t work under him. Someone moderately attractive but also not a large part of his life who would be enjoyable and Thorin wouldn’t have to worry about seeing regularly after that.

 

That wasn’t an option with the Company. He could try, pick Bofur or Dori maybe and see if they could keep it from disrupting their group dynamics. He was sure that they’d be fine with him afterwards. But…

 

He didn’t want to. He wanted Bilbo, and Bilbo was the one Alpha in the Company that Thorin was sure wouldn’t be unaffected afterwards.

 

But then, neither would he.

 

Thorin closed his eyes against the sunlight streaming down the hall, against the dust motes dancing in sun beams, and the visual texture of an entirely wooden structure. He ignored the sounds of Oin rustling about in the room he’d just exited, and the fainter noise of the Company going about their business outside and their laughter.

He concentrated on scent alone, lifting his head and opening his mouth to better his senses. There was the heavy scent of animals, their wool and fur and excrement, and there was the pine scent of the wood Beorn’s home was made of. Underneath, fainter, he could detect the individual signatures of his Company. Bofur’s wool and wood drifted to mind, and the herbs Oin carried, and the leather and and mineral oil that were strong markers in both Fili’s and Dwalin’s scents. There was Kili’s faint feather-smell, overlaid with Fili’s scent and the paper and ink and wool that were Ori, and there were Dori, Bifur, Bombur, Balin and Nori’s scents.

 

A bright thread shining strong and standing out above them all, comforting and exciting in equal measure, was Bilbo’s scent. Thorin exhaled slowly and let his chin drop to his chest.

 

That was enough for a heat, Thorin decided. The regard he felt for Bilbo already was enough for just that. Thorin wanted more, had known he would since before they’d fell to the Goblintown denizens, but he doubted Bilbo would. Thorin had treated him badly, and was the exact opposite of what Hobbit culture found attractive in Omegas.

 

But it was a rare Alpha, Dwarrow included, who’d turn down an Omega about to go in heat. Thorin firmed his resolve, drawing on two centuries of life lived courageously, and followed Bilbo’s scent down the hall and out the door.

 

The scent he was following was the same as he’d smelled this morning. Bilbo smelled anxious, almost panicked, and then once he got outside it calmed, mellowed back out to sweet smoke and good peat. Thorin had always enjoyed working with peat, when he could. The smell of it was calming and warm. 

 

Further he followed his nose past the garden and back, past the sweet heavy scent of clover and greenery. The sun beat down warmly on the back of his neck and the bridge of his nose, the stagnant air helping preserve Bilbo’s scent. 

 

He finally found Bilbo stuck in the middle of the nastiest blackberry bramble Thorin had ever laid eyes on. Bilbo was stretched out tight, fingers just grasping a juicy-looking berry.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin said loudly, and Bilbo gasped and flailed. Thorin’s hand snapped out and grabbed the back of his shirt firmly at the last second and then eased him back out of the bramble.

 

“Thorin, goodness’ sake, don’t scare a Hobbit like that,” he said, patting his face down to see if he’d been scratched and brushing his shirt and hair free of thorns and leaves. 

 

“My apologies,” Thorin said. “I did not mean to startle you, especially in such a precarious position.”

 

“Yes, well.” Bilbo looked embarrassed, the bridge of his nose flushing lightly. “The kitchen was out of blackberries again. Seemed like I ought to replace them, since I used so many.”

“On blackberry buckle, and blackberry scones.”

 

The flush deepened and spread across Bilbo’s cheeks attractively as he nodded, looking off to the side. 

 

“For me,” Thorin clarified. Bilbo cleared his throat and hummed.

 

“Yes, well, us Hobbits tend to speak with actions, and especially food,” he said. “I was attempting to--to show my regard for you.” 

 

“And by regard, you mean ‘affection?’ In a...in a brotherly sense, or as a companion?” Thorin asked, forcing himself to stand still and tall. If he’d asked Bilbo, Bilbo could have told him in that it made him look rather like someone was pinching his bum and he was trying to ignore it. The thought softened the edges of Bilbo’s nerves and bolstered his courage.

 

“Yes, unless you’d rather something else,” Bilbo said firmly, and used his last bit of bravery to meet Thorin’s eyes and keep his expression open and honest.

 

Thorin’s eyes went wide and searched Bilbo’s disbelievingly before crinkling at the edges as Thorin smiled beautifully.

 

“I believe I would,” Thorin said, and Bilbo grinned back at him. “And that is actually part of what I came to speak with you about.” Bilbo watched Thorin push his chest out and tuck his arms behind him in what Bilbo had learned over time was Thorin’s “Imperial Pose.”

 

“I, Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror--”

 

“Nope,” Bilbo said shortly, and ducked around him to start walking back to the house. Thorin stood there, shocked, and then thundered up behind him and glowered.

 

“You did not listen!” Thorin snapped. Bilbo scowled up at him.

 

“You were about to make some sort of--royal proclamation again,” Bilbo said dryly. Thorin shut his mouth and looked at Bilbo oddly.

 

“I was not,” Thorin said.

 

“Were too,” Bilbo said calmly. “I can tell, you have a way you stand when you conduct official royal business.” Bilbo stopped to imitate it. “And then you start with ‘I, Thorin, Son of Thrain,’ etc.” Thorin frowned mightily and crossed his arms, his shoulders hunching defensively. 

 

“I am a prince. I was raised to make all important announcements in such a manner.”

 

“Well, that’s fine and good, but I’m not going to be some royal guard or what have you!” Bilbo snapped, the fur on his feet lifting like an angry dog’s. Thorin curled his fists angrily and brought them down to his side. “I thought you wanted a relationship, and then you started in with that business. Give me a minute to lick my wounds before you start in on how honored I should be.”

 

“I was going to ask you to share my heat!” Thorin shouted.

 

“You what,” Bilbo said dumbly. Thorin glared, breathing hard and fists clenched at his side.

 

“I am going into heat soon,” Thorin ground out between clenched teeth. “I was going to ask you formally to be my heat partner. Because that is how it is done among Dwarrow.”

 

“Among Dwarrow,” Bilbo said blandly. His shoulders relaxed into feigned nonchalance but his hands gave him away, clenching and unclenching until he hid them behind his back. “Of which you are one. Yes, of course.”

 

“I am expected to ask formally each time,” Thorin said. Bilbo rocked on his heels and hummed.

 

“And I. I’m supposed to know that.” 

 

“Whether you know or not changes none of the expectations my people have for me!”

 

“Well I’m not one of your people, Thorin, and I had no idea! I’m a Hobbit! And Hobbits don’t formally ask for a fuck!” 

 

Thorin noticed a few things as they stared each other down. 

 

First, he was absolutely drenched behind; Bilbo was proving his worth as an Alpha and partner by arguing with him and not backing down when he had a fair point.

 

Second, this was not going to plan. That was both surprising and not, as generally Thorin’s plans were good, and Bilbo was very good at disrupting them.

 

Thorin was done with this argument.

 

“As you please, Master Baggins,” he said, and turned stiffly towards the house.

 

“No! You daft old dwarf,” Bilbo said in exasperation, and Thorin was unexpectedly whirled around and then kissed.

 

It was forceful, not because Bilbo was being aggressive but because he had to lurch up against Thorin by the strength of his arms in order to reach his mouth. Thorin tasted blackberries and tea from their meal earlier, and smelled sour notes of frustration and hot-metal notes of anger. As he leaned down into the kiss though these things mellowed, opening into nothing but the taste of Bilbo like the best drink and food and fine linens and soft beds and brightest steel and silver and mithril all rolled up into one Best Thing Of All. 

 

Bilbo moaned into the kiss when Thorin let him slide his tongue gently across Thorin’s lips and gripped Thorin’s sleeves harder, pulling him down for more. Thorin bent forward, bringing a hand up to cup Bilbo’s face, marveling at the smoothness and the way Bilbo’s scent rushed heady and warm from his skin.

 

If Thorin had needed to change pants before, he was going to clean himself up with a towel, now--his body was absolutely on board with Bilbo putting what felt like a prime Alpha dick wherever he liked, and was doing its best to be welcoming. He gently ground his cock against Bilbo’s, enjoying the sensation and the noise it elicited from the Hobbit.

 

They kissed for an age, it seemed, before they both remembered they weren’t young men anymore and that they would be getting a crick in their neck if they continued as they were. Thorin eased up to standing straight again, hands lingering on the warm skin of his neck. Bilbo looked dazed, eyes fixed on Thorin’s mouth even as he absentmindedly laid his hands against Thorin’s chest.

 

“Please,” Thorin asked softly, his thumb stroking across Bilbo’s cheek. 

 

“Of course,” Bilbo answered, and followed Thorin back to Beorn’s.

  
  
  
  


 

Hours had been spent in preparation, with Thorin and Bilbo both giving their respective biologies have a little head to do what they needed. Thorin made the bed in his room with military precision, fluffed the pillows, pushed a bookshelf towards the door so he could block them in later. Bilbo fetched food: canned goods that they could break into later, a jar of honey, a bowl of hard-crusted bread, a bell-jar of butter.

 

As they worked and Bilbo passed in and out of the room, Bilbo could smell the syrup-sweet of Thorin’s heat growing in the room. He suspected Thorin was possibly rubbing his chin against the door jamb when Bilbo wasn’t watching, and possibly the bed sheets and pillows as well. Bilbo couldn’t help but kiss Thorin whenever he could reach. Thorin reciprocated, torn between trying to slip his hands in under Bilbo’s shirt and tugging on the collar of his own.

 

Bilbo had started bringing full canteens of water he’d borrowed from the lads when he saw Thorin start to strip off his armor. Bilbo stopped dead in the doorway and watched Thorin lay out the fur cloak he was rarely without, remove his mail, start taking the gambeson off. He looked smaller without it all, yet somehow kept his presence. This was a warrior, naked or clothed, though Bilbo decided he rather liked him naked more.

 

A fresh wave of scent hit Bilbo’s nose as the gambeson was removed, and even with a dulled nose and dampened instincts he couldn’t have resisted. 

 

“We’re good, this is good,” he rambled, closing the distance to shove his nose into Thorin’s chest and then his armpit. “Seriously, we’ve prepared amply, Thorin, please can we just--”

 

“Please,” Thorin said, pulling him up against his chest and kissing him deeply. He’d been holding on by a thread to his self control and with the rush of pleading from his Hobbit severed it.

 

Thorin’s mind went blank, fuzzing at the edges with the sensation of Bilbo’s hands on his arms, his chest, his--Thorin gasped into their kiss, startled when Bilbo grabbed handfuls of his ass and squeezed. 

 

Bilbo’s hips bumped against Thorin’s thighs and found himself being crowded back towards the bed as they kissed. Thorin would have gone willingly, but found himself being pushed back more strongly than he’d expected. The bed was very large, and when they reached it Thorin had to turn around to climb up onto the top of it. Bilbo took advantage of it by grasping his hips and grinding against him promisingly. 

 

“Up, get up here,” Thorin commanded and dragged Bilbo up as soon as he had the footing. Bilbo scrambled up, half pulled and completely ready, and Thorin started tearing his clothes off--first that ridiculously thin coat, then the vest (good job it didn’t have buttons anymore, or he would’ve popped them right off), and he got to the top button of his tunic before Bilbo interrupted. 

 

Bilbo pushed him down against the mattress and finally was able to reach him well enough to kiss him like he’d wanted to many times before. He threaded his hands through his hair and kissed him like he was the answer to every question Bilbo had ever asked. 

 

They touched, and kissed, and Bilbo sank into the honey-sweet, sunny scent of Thorin’s arousal. They pushed into each other for some time, enjoying themselves, before Thorin grew tired of it and pushed up to his elbows to flip over. Bilbo kissed down his back, holding his hair out of the way, using his other hand to knead against Thorin’s cock through his pants. Bilbo’s cock twitched against Thorin’s ass, pushing against Thorin’s hole without penetrating, and it wasn’t enough.

 

“Hurry up Bilbo!” Thorin tried to snap, thought it came out more of a strangled groan as Bilbo humped against his ass again. “Mahal’s sake get this off--” Bilbo snarled, bring both hands to tug forcefully at the laces. Thorin shoved his hands out of the way and snapped the laces with a harsh tug with a triumphant “ha!”

 

Bilbo stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, and over his shoulder Thorin would later swear he actually saw Bilbo’s eyes dilate. Then Bilbo was yanking his pants down, fishing his cock out of his own, and pressing against Thorin’s ass.

 

Thorin’s shoulders tensed as a frisson of fear went down his spine--Bilbo was smaller than most Dwarven Alphas, but he didn’t think he was ready to have his cock shoved straight in. Bilbo was holding on though, the herbal tea proving its worth as he groaned, sliding his cock up and down Thorin’s crack a few slow times before scooting back to massage at his rim with a thumb.

 

“This is so strange, Thorin,” Bilbo said shakily. “I’ve never had this kind of control before! Oh, goodness, I can take my time with you.” Thorin laughed, moving his hips back to get more pressure. Bilbo spread the wetness around as more came leaking out, marveling at the experience and how smoothly the muscle relaxed into his touch.

 

“I’ve never done this with an omega, really,” Bilbo said. “As I figure it, anyway. Doesn’t really count if I can’t remember it. Can I--? What can I do?” The pad of his thumb rubbed directly over Thorin’s hole and Bilbo was fascinated at Thorin’s vocal response.

 

“Just--Bilbo, Mahal’s sake, hurry up!” Thorin gripped the sheet, trying not to lose all patience with him.

 

“Alright, alright, ok,” Bilbo said, switching his grip to the meat of Thorin’s ass and gently pressing his thumb into Thorin. Thorin swore approvingly, and Bilbo stretched him gently, bit at a time. Thorin felt a fresh wave of Alpha scent hit him--Bilbo, an Alpha, was caring for his Omega, was readying him--and moaned, thrusting back against Bilbo.

 

“Enough, Bilbo, just fuck me already!” Thorin whined, and Bilbo wasn’t one to deny his partner. He lurched up to his knees, used his thumb to guide his cock to Thorin’s hole, and pushed in.

 

Thorin had been with Alphas during his heats before, and if one of them had tried to bottom out in the first go like this, it would have been nearly painful. As it was, this was Bilbo, and it turned out a Hobbit Alpha’s cock was just perfect. It filled him beautifully, a relief to pressure that had been itching at him for days, and Thorin was well pleased.

 

“Alright?” Bilbo asked in a harsh, low voice that sent shivers down Thorin’s spine as he pulled back. “Alright. Here we go.” Bilbo shoved forward again and went hard.

 

Mahal, it was everything he’d wanted the last few days, and what he wanted every damn heat--a thick cock deep in him, leaving no room for anything else, hitting just the right spots that brought him pleasure and relief. Bilbo pistoned above him, panting gasps and grasping slickly at his hips for leverage. The Alpha seemed on the edge of reason, wild, almost unhinged in his movement and it sent a thrill through Thorin’s body. 

 

This was an Alpha. This was what his body wanted right now, and Bilbo was more than willing to deliver. Thorin wasn’t nearly as far gone as Bilbo but he felt more responsive than he ever had before, like Bilbo’s ferocity mirrored itself in Thorin’s chest. He stretched out his arms, gasping as he lifted his ass and Bilbo hit a sensitive spot inside him, and let go.

 

Bilbo panted a laugh, shuffled his knees closer, and laid against Thorin’s back and he kept pumping in and out. Thorin made encouraging noises when Bilbo reached under to grasp his cock and give it some attention. The combination of stimulation inside and out was perfect, and Thorin spilled onto the sheets with a breathy wail.

 

Bilbo didn’t stop. He fucked Thorin through his peak and kept right on after. The feel of him moving inside him as Thorin’s ass clenched and relaxed was strange and amazing and Thorin came a second time as he felt Bilbo’s knot start to grow. 

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo pleaded, “Thorin, can I knot you, please, please say yes--”

 

“Yes, damn it!” Thorin howled and Bilbo shoved his cock, knot and all, as far into Thorin as he could manage and strained to go further, thighs locking tight as he finally came. Thorin reached down to first himself as Bilbo emptied himself into his ass, and the pulsing, the fullness of being knotted, and his hand had him getting off yet again.

 

Bilbo relaxed eventually, knotted in Thorin but not actually coming for the moment, and after a few testing clenches Thorin carefully shifted from over the wet spot and dropped onto his side, Bilbo going with him easily. Bilbo wrapped one arm around Thorin and the other pillowed his head, and they settled in.

 

A few minutes of cuddling later, Bilbo shuddered, a quiet gasp escaping him and Thorin felt Bilbo pulse where they were locked together. Thorin twisted back to shoot Bilbo an inquisitive look.

 

“Dwarrow Alphas don’t spill a few more times while knotted?” Bilbo asked breathlessly. Thorin stared wide-eyed and shook his head slightly. “Oh. Ah. Hobbits do. Sorry, is it bothersome…? I don’t know if I can help it but I can try…?”

 

“It doesn’t bother me, Bilbo,” Thorin said. “I have often thought to myself that Alphas got the raw end of the bargain, between ruts and knots and only getting off once during each coupling. It’s good to not worry about it for once.”

 

Behind him, Bilbo tensed and started to shake a little, and Thorin wondered how long his peak would last until in a strangled voice, Bilbo cleared his throat and said:

 

“My pleasure, Thorin.” 

 

The shaking continued. Thorin turned to look at the Hobbit again, and saw Bilbo fighting to keep a straight face. Thorin snorted, Bilbo couldn’t keep his giggles in, and soon they were both howling with laughter.

 

Bilbo’s laughter turned into a different kind of gasping courtesy of Thorin’s laughter and how it felt on Bilbo’s cock, and Thorin trailed off into chuckles as he stroked Bilbo’s arm and they drifted off for a nap.

 

Thorin decided he’d made an excellent decision in hiring this burglar, and resolved to keep him around for as long as possible after the Quest. He could use a consort who was good at sneaking, and sex, and whose scent was so enticing.

  
He fell asleep with plans of an oak-leaf crown and stained glass windows set in a comfortable room that smelled of his favorite things and he smiled


End file.
